


Awareness

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Incest, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a sharp sense of situational awareness, even when he tries to convince himself otherwise.  The morning after the night before being one of those occasions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awareness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat and obviously in the genesis of it all to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Awareness isn't the same as waking up. John is quite certain of it, especially when he's certain that he's still dreaming. He lying in a comfortable bed, bracketed by two warm bodies which is enough to convince him that he's having _that_ kind of dream. He's naked after all and so are his companions. They're probably also sisters, not twins. He doesn't have the twins fantasy himself. He's always appreciated being able to make a reasonable distinction, so sisters it is then. He smiles, eyes still determinedly closed, because now that he's aware that he's dreaming he's bound to wake up. He'll wake up in his own bed, in Baker Street, with Sherlock doing something else bizarre and/or loud downstairs, so he's going to enjoy the last vestiges of his dream fantasy.

"He's waking up." Sherlock's voice.  
"He's been awake for about a minute now." Mycroft on the other side.

This isn't part of the fantasy. Definitely not, not least of all because those familiar voices appear to be in bed with him.

"You're meant to be sisters." John mutters, knowing that when Sherlock shakes him awake he'll be rewarded with a look of annoyed confusion at the comment.  
Sherlock, understandably, gives John a shake.  
"Stop that. Let him rest." Mycroft again, far too close and apparently getting closer.  
John squeezes his eyes shut because he's starting to suspect that he isn't dreaming at all.  
"He's-"  
"Sherlock."  
"Fine."  
Sherlock's grip on his shoulder vanishes and John tells himself that he must be dreaming after all.

The Holmes brothers are just standing over his bed which is why they've intruded into his fantasy, John rationalises. Whatever it is must be urgent by Sherlock's estimation and not important enough to require immediate action by Mycroft's. Mycroft has probably come upstairs with Sherlock just to make sure that his brother doesn't do anything rash in his attempts to wake John up. Somehow they've just managed to mesh with his rapidly fragmenting fantasy. He isn't really lying in a large, comfortable bed after all. His cheek isn't touching a bare shoulder that, from the proximity of their voices, probably belongs to Mycroft Holmes. There also isn't a jumble of curls against his back just above Sherlock's forehead pressed to his skin. There's no thin arm draped across his hip or a large palm laid over his, where he has a hand flattened against the soft skin of a stomach. It's all just a terrible mix up of fantasy and reality, blending into absolute nonsense.

"Go make some coffee."  
"Why do _I_ have to make the coffee?"  
"Because I'll make breakfast."  
"John normally makes me breakfast." Sherlock's sullen tone isn't entirely convincing.  
"So I've noticed. You _can_ have cereal if you really want."

John isn't dreaming and he isn't sure what he necessarily wants to do about that. The beginnings of a slight ache in his stomach suggest that breakfast wouldn't be a bad first option at least. He's about to voice the notion when he's abruptly exposed to the cold. The blankets are thrown back and suddenly there are no naked Holmes brothers beside him to keep him warm. He bolts upright and grabs for the bedcovers on reflex. Eyes wide open it's finally obvious that pretending that he's still dreaming is far from possible. Standing at the end of the bed Sherlock and Mycroft are bickering again, in low voices, and they're both completely naked. Neither of them seem perturbed by that fact. Sherlock has one hand turned in, palm flat against his waist, the other raised to gesture with. Mycroft is leaning back slightly to avoid Sherlock's flailing hand, one arm bent at the elbow so that his hand rests ponderous on his stomach, on which he drums his fingers absently. John can picture the same argument easily, with both of them fully clothed. Sherlock would have taken his jacket off and Mycroft's free hand would be resting on his umbrella.

"John..." Sherlock suddenly looks embarrassed.  
Mycroft smiles briefly, genially, in John's direction before gracefully sweeping a dressing-gown up off the floor and handing it to his brother.  
Sherlock swiftly pulls the too large dressing-gown on and ties it closed in jerky motions.  
"Coffee would be good." John suggests, eyes on Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock's expression is far too grateful as he flees the room.  
Mycroft makes some soft noise to himself. "Curious." He adds, most likely for John's benefit.  
"What?"  
"My brother."  
"That's one way of putting it."  
Mycroft is still turned away from John, eyes on the route of Sherlock's departure. He's completely unselfconscious about his lack of clothing.  
"Mycroft..."  
"Sherlock's embarrassment at being seen naked by you." Mycroft explains. " Of course you saw it all last night but this morning his modesty is winning out again." He makes it sound distasteful.  
John feels an echo of the annoyance, mingled with wariness, that he experienced the first time they'd met. "Thank God you're above all that." He responds coolly.  
Surprisingly, Mycroft actually turns to him and smiles as if he's been paid a genuine compliment.

In contrast to his brother, Mycroft doesn't appear to be in the slightest hurry to cover himself up. John isn't sure which bothers him more, that or Sherlock's sudden surge of modesty. Granted, Sherlock isn't one of those men who wander about in boxer shorts and drink milk straight from the carton in the fridge in the first place. God knows, John's had to share facilities with men who thought nothing of whipping it out and urinating in the sink if they'd decided that the toilet was too far, the same men who could have heated arguments about the best type of butter for early morning toast. He's had to share living space with men who belched as a good morning, share showers with men who slapped each other's behinds, in a completely heterosexual fashion, he's even shared clothing, or rather, woken up to find that it has been unjustly liberated from his pile. Sherlock has been a nice change really. He doesn't steal John's clothes, doesn't break wind loudly and then talk about it, doesn't even slap John on the arse and joke about bending over to pick up the soap. That's the nice thing about living with Sherlock: Sherlock _is_ modest, he doesn't trudge around in grimy old clothing, stripping off as he makes his way to the washing machine, he doesn't talk about the size of his dick or make crotch-grabbing motions to illustrate it. Not that Mycroft is doing any of those things. Mycroft is just standing there, watching him, completely unabashed.

"It bothers you."  
"I- well..." John tugs the bedcovers up further, even though they're already completely covering his lap.  
"Very well. For the sake of your scandalised sensibilities." Mycroft dons a spare dressing-gown, clearly for John's benefit rather than his own.  
"They match." The black paisley pattern is only a colour contrast away from the burgundy robe that Sherlock's just put on.  
"Yes, they do."  
"I'm surprised you don't keep a spare in his size." John find himself saying, and then regrets it.  
Mycroft smiles thinly. "I did. He took it with him when he moved in with you actually."

Mycroft exits the room at a far more sedate pace than Sherlock but his departure, likewise, suggests a degree of sudden discomfort with matters. John leans back against the headboard of the bed and forces himself to relax his nervous grip on the bedcovers. He doesn't know if Mycroft's parting comment suggests that the bothers had lived together before or just that he and Sherlock regularly... If that's the case then John is aware that he's drifted, completely unsuspectingly, into dangerously deep waters.

"I wasn't trying to steal him from you." John says aloud.

He isn't. Hasn't been. Even if he'd been aware of the situation prior he wouldn't. He hadn't intended to do anything more than live with Sherlock, as flatmates. Even last night, he hadn't intended more than to act as a buffer between two warring factions. He hadn't thought he'd end up doing much other than serving as a distraction to their enmity. In fact, he doesn't remember much of last night at all. Dinner he recalls as being vaguely uncomfortable. He'd been a little surprised at the locale, Mycroft's own home, and by the hired catering staff, but he'd supposed that that sort of arrangement was commonplace in Mycroft's life. He couldn't imagine Mycroft cooking his own dinner after all. Dinner had concluded with Sherlock making motions to depart, abruptly shoving back his chair and tossing his napkin down onto the table like a challenge. John had expected that they'd leave too. He'd imagined their leaving Mycroft behind, sat at his dinner table, alone in his elegant house, with silence, and the occasional chime of the carriage clock on the mantle, for company. He'd pictured it so clearly that it had taken him a moment to realise that Sherlock had merely transferred himself to the plush couch on the other side of the open dividing doors rather than make for the exit. Mycroft had set about pouring drinks and John recalls his vision growing steadily hazier around the edges as the evening had progressed. He'd stopped to watch the silhouettes of the catering staff through the closed glass doors to the dining room and had suggested that perhaps they ought to call a taxi. The fact that the catering staff were cleaning up suggests that it can't have taken him long to get drunk, and that thought alone is enough to make him wonder if all hadn't been even quite as amiable as it had seemed last night.

"I can't quite _remember_ last night." He begins when Sherlock returns with a tray bearing сafetière, coffee cups and other suitable paraphernalia.  
"John..." Sherlock sets the tray down on the bedside table but stands rooted to the spot.

John reads Sherlock's worry, bordering on panic, clearly and finds that he doesn't quite care about what his memory is implying. It's an odd sensation because he's certain that he _should_ be worried. It's just that he can't quite bring himself to care enough about it. He cares more about Sherlock who is right here, right now, looking like he might collapse in hysterics at any minute. John does care but at the same time there's a touch of terrifying dispassion about it all. It's the same sensation he brought back with him from Afghanistan. A sense of distance and acceptance and utter negligence when it comes to humanity. _What will be: will be_ , taken to absurd extremes.

"Come here." He reaches out to Sherlock, pulling him down onto the bed beside him.  
"John, do you-"  
"No regrets, right. Whatever happens." John tugs the covers up over Sherlock as well and rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Everything is... alright." Sherlock murmurs, arm curving around John's shoulder.

Closing his eyes, John gives up thinking about anything at all. He can live for the moment just as much as, perhaps even better than, the average man. If all he has is this moment then there's nothing that can be done about it. Without knowing, all he can do is be, as he is, from second to second.

"Are your thoughts always so morbid?" Mycroft's voice breaks in, shattering the silence.  
John opens his eyes and sits up, smiling. "Sometimes."  
"Sherlock's already far too maudlin."  
"At least I'm not-" Sherlock snaps.  
"Better to be human than a sociopath, no matter how highly functioning?"   
"Schizoid personal type, _actually_." Sherlock returns archly.  
"In which case you'd be... schizotypal?"  
"I... well, actually..." John trails off.  
"That would be accurate?"  
"No. No I didn't say that. You're not, either of you..."  
"Dysfunctional, I believe is the word you're looking for." Mycroft's earlier humour has vanished, replaced by a bland calm.  
"I'm only dysfunctional when I want to be!" Sherlock snaps and then looks like he wants to stuff his fingers into his mouth to retroactively stop himself saying it.  
" _Exactly_." Mycroft sets the breakfast tray down on the bed with a smile.

Breakfast consists of many types of sweet pastries and a smattering of different savoury rolls, with small pots of jams, marmalades and butter on the side. Despite his earlier, admittedly depressive, thoughts the presence of food reminds John that he's hungry. Mycroft seems to have piled up as many bakery items as he could find onto one large plate and supplied three quarter plates on the side to create an impromptu buffet. John picks up a pain au chocolat and is pleased to find that it's warm.

Several pastries later it occurs to John, again, that he's naked and sandwiched between the Holmes brothers. Mycroft is sipping his coffee while Sherlock is busy tearing off and buttering bite sized pieces of crusty bread roll. Food seems to be helping John's memory at any rate and he can vaguely recall Mycroft bending over him in the living room and Sherlock hesitantly taking his hand to lead him upstairs to the bedroom.

"I still don't remember everything." He admits, calmly.  
"When you're over the shock it will all come back." Mycroft has started reading the paper. He doesn't look up from his copy of The Times.  
John peers down at the pages spread open across Mycroft's lap.  
"As long as you didn't put any rohypnol in his tea." Sherlock follows the statement by quickly stuffing another piece of bread into his mouth.  
Mycroft stiffens and glares in Sherlock's direction. "I'm not the one who reads The Guardian."  
Sherlock scowls back but is too busy chewing to manage a reply.  
John ignores them both and turns the page of Mycroft's paper.  
"That was research!" Sherlock finally manages.  
"I'm sure the LibDem party conference was _fascinating_."  
"At least it wasn't in Birmingham."  
John turns another page and lets out a low chuckle. "As if we could ever sustain a war on two fronts." He comments to the article.  
"We were never meant to." Mycroft answers him.  
"Someone should tell the Chief of Staff that."  
" _Oh_." Sherlock begins coldly, and then shoves another piece of bread into his mouth.

Mycroft launches into an explanation of department bias and John finds himself responding with both argument and agreement at points when it comes to the defence budget. They're mostly in agreement when it comes to specific increases in defence expenditure and John commiserates with Mycroft when the other complains about those 'not in the know' demanding ludicrous economising. Though he doesn't look at Sherlock, John quietly takes hold of his hand, once it looks like Sherlock's stopped stuffing food into his mouth in an attempt to refrain from saying anything. They sit there, holding hands, while John discusses defence policy with Mycroft. Sherlock begins to rub his thumb gently along John's skin where their hands are clasped and John responds, in the affirmative, to Mycroft's assertion that it would certainly be convenient if certain civil servants would just disappear.

The situation is far from rational, far from sensible in anyone's estimation but perhaps that's part of the explanation. John isn't an entirely sane man anymore. He doesn't quite see the world or feel its intensity like he should. He can't abide the apathy of civilian life. Sanity, safety, are overrated as far as he's concerned. John misses the war and he's glad to be back.

**Author's Note:**

> A sociopath would fall under the classification of having Antisocial Personality Disorder according to the DSM-IV. Interestingly, a fair argument can be made for this being a socio-economic condition.
> 
> Schizoid personality disorder and schizotypal personality disorder are more specific diagnoses, and do in fact come up in some pre-employment health screenings in the UK.
> 
> The Conservative party conference was in Birmingham recently while the Liberal Democrats' was in Liverpool.


End file.
